Sisters
by tearing hands
Summary: Meredith tries to figure out how to inform Lexie of a death. Friendship between Meredith and Lexie. Character death, but not a really main character.


**Sisters**

Meredith has walked the entire hospital twice over, checked every closet and on-call room, bathroom stall and stairway, every possible place for Lexie to hide- except for this last on-call room. She presses her back against the closed door and slides down until she's sitting on the floor. On the other side of the door, Lexie waits.

How to say this? Meredith should know instinctually by now, should have the words ready on the tip of her tongue. Learning the sensitive language of death and grief is so much a part of her job that she should teach a course on it for pre-med. students: How to Tell Someone Their Loved One Has Died 101. This is how it would go:

Begin by approaching the deceased patient's family with a defeated posture and a somber look, tastefully subtle and not overdone. If you're lucky, they'll receive the message intuitively, almost telepathically, and you'll be saved from the painful inconvenience of speaking the unpleasant truth.

If the dear departed's relatives are a little slow on the uptake or reluctant to let go of hope, you have no choice- you have to talk. Speak softly, so that they feel calmed and reassured; slowly, to give them time to process each word and ensure that you don't have to go through this twice; and with an air of authority, because you want them to know you're telling the truth, that no, there cannot be a mistake, he's definitely dead.

In unfamiliar situations (and let's face it: situations like this never become familiar, or at least they shouldn't), it's best to resort to clichés- they may be overused and laughable, but they're comfortingly reliable. You could say something along the lines of: "I'm so sorry. He didn't make it. We did everything we could, but (insert simplified cause of death here). I'm so, so sorry."

They might break down and sob noisily, or wail in high-pitched anguish, or shake their heads emphatically and protest the truth through tears. They may even attack you in a flurry of grief or thank you quietly, their faces frozen still. Forgive everything they say or do; know that these are the moments when people are the most human, and humanity, in case you've forgotten already, is messy.

If you find it appropriate, comfort them with a touch on the shoulder or a squeeze of their hand. Try to keep yourself distant but not cold. Remember that their loss is not yours to grieve. Find that balance between indifference and compassion, the fine line between the two extremes, and walk it like a tightrope with a bottomless pit on each side- one of cold-heartedness, and the other of self-destruction.

Meredith has slipped on the tightrope, two fingers clinging desperately to the lifeline, her body dangling over the abyss of self-destruction. She tries to apply her rules to this situation (_her_ situation):

"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could."

(_We could have done more. I should've stopped him, stormed into his house and pried the bottle from his shaking hands. You should've stopped him. He could have been saved._)

"But after the head trauma he sustained in the crash…"

(_You said it yourself. He was a drunk._)

"I'm so, so sorry."

(_But maybe I'm not. He was supposed to be our father. He left me to grow up without him, and he left you to take care of him, to clean him up, to try to keep him sober. He was the father; _he_ was supposed to take care of _us_. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he even wanted this. After all, it was his own drunken swerve that killed him. Maybe we're better off without him_.)

But are they? Thatcher was their father. He was a drunk, and sometimes he was cruel and manipulative, and sometimes he hurt people- sometimes he hurt Meredith and Lexie. But still, he was their father, and this matters more than the rest, or at least it should.

Meredith pulls herself to her feet and puts her palms flat against the door, resting her forehead on the cool metal. Clichés will not work here. She is not some emotionally detached doctor informing the third father/mother/son/daughter/brother/sister/friend of the week that it's time to start planning a funeral. Lexie is not some hysterical stranger who will step into her life for one heart-wrenching moment and be gone the next day. And her father is not just any former-human headed to the morgue; this isn't just anyone's blood drying on the hem of her scrubs.

_Hurry up and pull yourself together. You didn't even love him, really. You didn't know him at all. _But Meredith has never been good at convincing herself of things, and another voice in her mind chimes in before she can silence it. _But I wanted to. I wanted to know him. I wanted to love him. I wanted to _save_ him._ The harsher voice of reality steps in. _Then why didn't you? _

This inner-battle could last forever, if she lets it, and she can't do that to Lexie. Every moment that Meredith spends arguing with herself is another moment that Lexie waits in agony for an answer- a _yes_ or a _no_; a _living _or a _dead_; a _Thank God_ or an _I'm so sorry_. The how of it doesn't matter; Lexie has to be told. _Keep it simple_, she tells herself. _Keep it at the most basic truth. _It will only take three words- but what three?

"Our dad died." But this makes them daughters of the same father, sisters, and they aren't, not yet and maybe never.

"Your dad died." But this says that he was Lexie's responsibility, that it was on her to fix him, that her failure caused his death.

"My dad died." But Thatcher isn't her father, hasn't been since the day that he left her more than two decades ago. Maybe, with time, he could have been.

Meredith entertains this idea for a moment in spite of her better judgement (which she's never listened to, anyway) and pictures the two of them sitting side by side on the front porch swing, discussing something gloriously unimportant and sharing easy laughter. She can see the six of them gathered almost as some kind of family (Thatcher, Lexie, Molly and her family, and herself) around a Christmas dinner. She can see a stocking embroidered with her name hanging from his mantel with his other daughters'.

Meredith's mother had never believed in stockings. "Why the hell would you want to eat candy from a sock?" she'd snapped when Meredith suggested the possibility. Ellis hadn't believed in Christmas or God or children; children were only miniature adults and should be treated as such, with all of the responsibilities and expectations and none of that weak, codling love.

Meredith imagines Thatcher's death at the age of ninety-three after a long, healthy, happy life, a death of something pleasantly quick and blameless, like a heart attack. She has begun to picture his funeral when she realizes that her father's real funeral will most likely be within a week, and suddenly this is really too much to handle. She has to stop thinking and wishing and regretting; she has to _do _something.

Meredith grabs the door handle and turns it decisively. Lexie is curled on the bottom bunk, her back slouched against the wall, her legs tucked in front of her, arms wrapped around them. Her face is blank, a canvas waiting for paint, waiting to be told what expression to wear: grateful relief or stunned grief. It's up to Meredith to wield the paintbrush.

Meredith steps forward slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal that could at any moment go berserk. She sits down on the edge of the mattress and scoots backwards until she's next to her maybe-sister, who doesn't acknowledge Meredith's presence.

Meredith thinks about how frustrating, how disappointing it is that she'll never have the chance to try to understand why her father left her and maybe forgive him. She thinks of her mother, and of Susan, and of everything that could have been said and done if they'd been given more time. She thinks about how unfair it is that she never got to enjoy those precious everyday conversations with her father or a simple stocking on the mantel.

She glances to her right and examines Lexie's frozen face and watering eyes. It's time to speak now, to fill the vacuum of silence with the unpleasant truth.

The words that leave her mouth are thoughtless and sharp, too loud and all wrong, splintering the silence between them and breaking all of her careful rules:

"Lexie… we're orphans."

Lexie flinches, and a spasm of disbelief flashes violently across her face. Then she nods once, twice, and stares fixedly for a long time at the wall across from them. Next to her, Meredith waits.

"It's his own damn fault," Lexie spits out venomously, and Meredith turns to look at her in surprise. "He drank morning, afternoon, evening and night- weekdays and weekends. He couldn't take care of himself or act civilized or work or- or drive…"

She trails off, and when she speaks up again, her voice sounds strained. "I wanted him to stop, to wake up and realize what he was doing. When I wouldn't get him more scotch, he'd say, 'Your mother would have been able to take care of me.' Once I told him, 'Well, Mom's dead, Dad.' I gestured around the room at the dozens of empty bottles and then at him, ashen and unsteady and about to pass out, and I asked, 'Do you want to join her?' And he just gave me one of his pleasantly drunken smiles. 'What I want,' he slurred, 'is another bottle of scotch.'"

Lexie exhales forcefully, as if trying to breathe out the fury that courses through her. She untangles her limbs and wipes at her wet face. Meredith feels a drop of warm wetness slide down her chin, another brush her nose. She's crying. She hadn't realized it until now, but she's crying.

"I should've stopped him," Lexie mumbles, and then louder, with more certainty, "He was my father. I was supposed to take care of him when he couldn't do it himself. I should've stopped him. He would've been angry, but at least he'd still be alive."

Lexie compresses herself into a knot of crossed ankles and twisted arms, her hands clutched around her wrists, her legs pressed against her stomach, a futile attempt to trap the sobs inside of her body.

Meredith can remember resenting and even hating Lexie for possessing everything that she herself was denied- a happy, carefree childhood, a whole family instead of a broken half, a loving mother instead of a heartless one, the father that should have been hers. She looks at the girl crying messily beside her and feels as if she's seeing Lexie for the first time. This is her family- the only family that she has left.

Meredith puts her right arm around Lexie's quivering shoulders and says nothing because what is there to say. Lexie stiffens at first but then relaxes and rests her head on Meredith's shoulder, calmed and comforted, or at least as much as a grieving person can be comforted. She picks up Meredith's other hand and holds it in hers, the tears that they'd brushed away mixing on their intertwined fingers.

There is nothing miraculous or wonderworking about this moment. Their loss is just as unbelievable, their pain just as unbearable, and for many months afterwards they feel dulled by the shock of it all. But these quiet and simple gestures form a bond between them, and, for the first time, they can call each other sisters.

A/N: I have difficulties with the following things: writing in the past tense, actually developing some sort of plot, making a happy ending, writing realistic dialogue, and staying in character. (Lexie, by the way, is ridiculously hard to write.) So, if you review, I'd really appreciate some criticism and advice on how to handle those sorts of things. And yeah, I do realize that the stuff I listed is basically everything a writer needs to be able to do. Oh well. It's not like I'm planning to make a career out of fanfics.

Also, could someone please tell me how writers get a beta on this site? Because when I have time to write another fic (probably sometime between next month and never), it would be really, really helpful to have someone else's input and critique.


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